B ~ Apolytikion

In Abbey Dore, solitude is a place
where tourists creep across stone,
where donations are asked for in the nave,
because the tiles on the roof are loose
and where, in the south transept,
there is a monk praying to Saint Katherine

We should envy that monk
with his sweaty palms and jewelled knees
free of tonnage and poundage and all that
We should envy him in his moment of prayer,
for being dust, brushed in that moment
by light, his thoughts focused
on remaining at rest in the pillow of air

We should envy him for not knowing
the answer to the prayer, for having
no reply, no watermarked letter from God,
delicately explaining the situation

We are not dust. We cannot be raised
even by the hammering of rain
We are slate, anxious to be loosed
and fall on the head of some tourist